Rusted Anchor
by LexaRose
Summary: Mentions of past OishiEiji and OishiTezuka. Oishi can't sleep, plagued by thoughts and memories of the past.


**Title:** Rusted Anchor  
**Author:** Alexis  
**Pairing/Characters:** mentions of past Oishi/Eiji and Oishi/Tezuka (or Tezuka/Oishi, your choice)  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Warnings:** Oishi POV, angst, introspection  
**Summary:** Oishi can't sleep, plagued by thoughts and memories of the past.  
**Disclaimer:** If I owned Prince of Tennis, all the boys would be paired with each other, so that's why I write fanfiction.  
**Notes:** For the first line challenge in **encryptedminds**. Good lord, I thought I'd never finish this, because I had started this a looooong time ago, but my muses are hopefully coming back to me. Have a bunch more unfinished stories, so hopefully they'll be finished soon as well.

The tap still dripped, an almost annoying metronome of sound, because the washer hadn't been changed, and it's just one of those little things that reinforce reality. An hour had passed since he had washed the dinner dishes and went to lie down and attempt to catch fleeting glimpses of that thing that normal people called sleep. Yet, it had been a year since he had experienced anything that even closely resembled the peaceful rest that he had once known each night.

A rueful, bitter chuckle escaped him, although the only things around to hear it were the walls of the empty bedroom. Empty not of possessions, for the room was littered with furniture, clothing, books, and various other knick-knacks that a body would pick up in a lifetime. Instead it was empty of warmth, of another's rhythmic breathing, of their soft, almost-snores that would normally be heard this late at night, unless it was replaced by panting breath and soft whimpers and moans of ecstasy.

The room – the whole house – had been void of that warmth, of that presence, for the past year, and it throbbed through the emptiness like an aching wound. It was strange that even after all this time, he could roll over in the bed after one of those fleeting moments of repose, expecting to find a warm body to hold and wrap himself around. Instead, all he found was cold, empty sheets, and a pillow that no longer held the fragrance of a once-familiar shampoo.

It was always at this part of the night that the thoughts started to plague him; questions that he could never find answers to – or was it that he couldn't bring himself to give those answers credence? – and an endless stream of 'what-ifs'. When did things start to go wrong? What if he had realized things sooner? Why didn't they try to make things work? What if he hadn't left? What if he had left sooner?

A pillow came to rest over his head, hoping that somehow the down-filled cushion could block out the cyclical thoughts just as it blocked out the flickering light from the streetlamp that shone outside his window. He hated that lamp, and at the same time he loved it. It bathed his room in a golden glow that was so much like the golden light that had filled his life up until that fateful day one year past.

At first, he hadn't let it bother him; he refused to let it bother him. He was alone? Fine, there was nothing wrong with that, and he was attractive, as well as successful in his own right. It was only a matter of time until he found someone else. That someone else came much sooner than he had expected, in a much unexpected package. Waking up beside the man who had been his best friend for longer than he could remember was odd, and yet oddly comforting at the same time.

He tried; he tried so hard to fall in love, maybe he even convinced himself of its truth, but the other man knew better. Knew whose name he said in his sleep, knew that when he rolled over to hug a warm body close to him, he had to open his eyes to remember just whose body he was embracing, that brown eyes and hair could never compare to endless blue and deep red.

Even so, it didn't really hit him until he was visiting a nearby park early one Sunday morning, and along his usual jogging path he spotted a flash of red, a shade of which he hadn't seen in months. There stood his ex-lover, as if waiting for him (and perhaps he was). The first thought in his mind was 'when had he taken up smoking?' as he stared dumbfounded at the cigarette that dangled from full lips.

"I heard about you and Buchou. Congratulations." Those were the only words spoken, and they were devoid of any of the normal patterns of speech that had been one of the many things that had made the other man so appealing. And then just like that, he was staring at a retreating back once more. Just like that, pain – both old and new – washed over him, bringing him to his knees on the empty footpath. It was then that he knew he had never gotten over Kikumaru Eiji, and he never would.

Not even bothering to finish with the rest of his run, he returned home – to the home that he and Eiji once shared, the house he now shared with Tezuka – and the other man met him at the door, not in the least bit surprised that he was back early. But then again, there was little that fazed Tezuka visibly, so that wasn't really saying much. It was then that he realized that even now, he never thought of Tezuka as 'Kunimitsu'. It was always the more formal surname, even in his most private of thoughts. That was odd, wasn't it?

Heading upstairs to take a shower, he spent a long time under the hot water, just standing there watching the water spiral down the drain. Finally, when the water beat against him like icy needles did he leave the shower, drying himself off and heading to the bedroom to change. It wasn't any surprise to him to find Tezuka's things gone, a letter left on his pillow, his name written neatly across the envelope. Messy goodbyes were never Tezuka's thing.

From that point forward his life became one of routine; from home to work and back home again, with very little ever changing that. Occasional visits with family, as well as the odd co-worker finally being too pushy for him to refuse politely when being asked to go out for drinks or something after his shift at the hospital were all that broke up the monotony of his days.

Two months after Tezuka left, he had decided to try to find Eiji and apologize, try to see just why he had shown up that day, but his search was in vain. He found out from Fuji that Eiji had gone to the US nearly two months ago, after accepting a transfer at his job. The idea of following the redhead came to mind, but it was soon discarded, fearing that the only reason the other man had showed up that fateful day was to merely say goodbye before leaving the country.

That brought him to tonight, like so many other nights, a night spent alone in a too-big house filled with too many memories. Sighing and tossing the pillow back off his face, he slipped out of bed, deciding to make some tea and hope that would aid him in finding some sleep that night.

Waiting for the kettle to sound, a light knock was heard, barely audible all the way in the kitchen, and he frowned, wondering if it was his imagination. The kettle whistled then, and he turned off the burner before pouring hot water over the tea leaves, letting it steep; he had always liked his tea very strong. Hearing the faint almost-knock again, he decided to go and make sure someone in the building didn't need him; his neighbors all knew he was a doctor, and the old woman next door, Kitamura-san, liked to ask him questions about any odd cough she had, certain that she would die from it.

Squaring his shoulders and hoping he didn't look quite as tired as he felt, he opened the door, and instead of seeing a little old woman, he looked nearly eye to eye with a man he had expected to never see again.

"Eiji..."


End file.
